Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory,imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001
Driving Lessons Chapter 30 - On the Town
"Well, Arthur…" Poland jumped up onto the barstool and looked at England through immaculate false eyelashes.
"Oh dear…" England groaned. He sat down and ordered a beer from the sarcastic looking barman who raised an eyebrow at Poland's pink leather trousers and gold purse.
"So tell me what you're doing here. I thought you were with France?"
"We're not a bloody couple!" England half yelled and then quickly shut his mouth.
Poland looked at him and then turned to the barman, "I'll have a margarita, please honey."
The barman obviously wasn't expecting to be called 'honey' by a Polish man in pink trousers, a fluffy jumper and high heels. He hesitated.
"Don't know what one is? Honestly, what kind of country is this, Arthur?" Poland said. "What beer is that, Arthur?"
"It's a Gold Top," England said, eyeing the froth. "You might not like it."
"Because it's too manly, sweetie?" Poland laughed.
England shuddered. Being called 'sweetie' by Poland was something every Nation - even Russia - had to endure. Most of them liked it though. "Do you have to be so…"
"Gay?" Poland asked loudly.
England closed his eyes. Why did Poland have to be conspicuous? "No, I meant loud," England replied.
Poland clapped him hard on the shoulder. He was surprisingly strong. He had large hands - beautifully manicured with pink nail polish and now subtly crossed his legs. He grinned at England in a spacey way that made England uncomfortable. Most of the Nations made England feel uncomfortable. But especially Poland, although the Pole came way down below Russia, Belarus, France, Germany or Italy. At least Poland wasn't violent, liable to divest of his clothes, tell him he was useless, cry at him or re-enact a sword battle with the pool cues from the nearby pool table. All possible with any of the afore-mentioned Nations.
"You're such a boring fart, Arthur!" Poland told him.
"Why are you here anyway?" England asked him.
"Why am I here? On a date of course! Do you have amnesia?"
"No. But I thought you were seeing Lithuania," England asked.
"Ah. I am. But you know… Gary Barlow…" he said this with a dreamy smile.
The barman looked around the bar as he placed the cocktail in front of him. "Gary Barlow?"
"No sweetie. He thinks he's Gary Barlow…" Poland indicated England, pointing at him with his cocktail umbrella.
"No way!" the barman said.
"No I don't! I didn't set that bloody thing up. It was Alfred and Francis."
"Yes blame them. Just like you always do!" Poland replied, sipping his drink, his wily cunning green eyes looked England over as he was a particularly interesting specimen.
"I am blaming them because this is their fault!" England protested. He took a big gulp of beer.
"I hope you're not going to get roaring drunk and get into a tomato fight, Arthur," Poland said, wagging a finger at him in his most campish manner possible.
England sighed. He knew Poland was just trying to make him feel as uncomfortable as possible. The Pole knew, absolutely knew that the Englishman hated scenes of any kind. "That wasn't my fault. That was Spain…" he hissed.
"Ah Antonio… How is he?"
"I don't know! Weren't you and Ukraine and Hungary supposed to be in Benidorm with him last week?"
"Ah yes Benidorm!" Poland started laughing. And kept laughing.
England wondered if he could slither from his bar stool and run.
"Well? What happened in Benidorm?" England asked. Hoping that this would distract the Pole from asking about his own private life. It was like distracting a hungry wolf with a choice steak.
"Benidorm was such fun! Oh. My. God! You really should have come with us, Arthur!" (England physically shuddered at this.) "We really know how to live! First of all we had a spa day. Katya and I had our nails done. Lizzie went off to do archery in the gym…"
"They did archery in the gym?" England asked. He wished he hadn't.
Poland put a hand on his arm. "Oh sweetie, you're such an innocent sometimes. Of course not!"
England wanted to say something but decided it was best if he was quiet. Perhaps if Poland talked enough then he might be able to slope off. He was thinking up suitable revenge on America and France for getting him into this date.
"Wasn't Antonio there?" England asked, taking another gulp of beer.
Poland looked at him worriedly. He'd heard about England's alcoholic tendencies and didn't really relish having to carry him home. Not that he couldn't. Poland, despite being small and slight, was actually tough and pretty strong. He just didn't want to break a nail.
"Yes he was. But the great lummox forgot his matador outfit!"
England was about to ask why Spain needed his matador outfit but decided against it. Sometimes it was better off not knowing.
"We went shopping. Katya bought a sombrero for Braginski. I cannot wait to see him in that!"
England winced. Nobody called Russia anything but 'Russia' or 'Mr Russia' or 'Sir', apart from his sisters. He had no idea how Poland got away with calling him 'Braginski'. He hoped Russia wasn't anywhere listening.
"We had tapas. It was very warm," Poland smiled. As an East European, he wasn't used to warmth. "We drank some sangria. Tony got us in to an embassy party in Madrid. Lizzie beat some guys at darts. Some people get really upset when they're beaten by a girl. Not that I would ever call Lizzie a girl. Would you?"
England shook his head quickly. But then realised his opinion was not being sought.
"…Portugal turned up. He's a bit boring sometimes isn't he? Don't you and he have an alliance on the go?" Poland, like most Nations managed to make 'alliance' sound positively filthy.
England didn't respond but drained his pint and ordered another. Together with a bag of cheese and onion crisps.
"We've all decided you drink too much," Poland observed. As he was telling England further stories about driving a golf cart into a swimming pool at an embassy party, Portugal and Spain arguing about Franco, and Katya tango-ing with some poor hapless German consulate, he was checking his diamante-encrusted iphone which never seemed to stopped buzzing. He also kept giggling and tapping out some message after first glancing at England. England suspected the messages were about him as he could see Poland mouthing the words 'drunk', 'imbecile' and 'boring' to himself as he wrote these.
"I do not drink too much! In fact, I don't think I drink enough!" England protested.
Poland glanced at him but continued the story. England had zoned out while eating his crisps.
"And then, oh my God, we had to stop Spain and Portugal from fighting. With tomatoes. And then Lizzie got a call from Austria to say he'd got on the wrong flight. He was going to Hamburg, but ended up in Beirut and then because he's such a klutz he got on another wrong flight and was in Marseilles. Lizzie had to go and get him. And then guess what?"
England almost fell off his barstool. "What?" he asked looking round, confused.
Poland thought that England was just answering his question and so continued, "And then Lizzie saw your cake on the news. I mean, really! So her and Austria got the plane here. Katya and I thought about coming as well but there was this party at the German Embassy and they know how to party!"
England doubted this.
"…And Spain refused to come with us! Can you believe it?"
"Yes."
Poland ignored him. "He said he had a paella emergency!"
England snorted. Clearly, Spain had more sense than England ever thought possible.
"Are you going to buy me another drink?" Poland asked him.
England thought about it and put his hand in his pocket for his wallet. He actually wondered why on earth Poland couldn't buy his own drinks.
"Can you believe him?" Poland asked the barman. "He won't buy me a single drink!"
"Are you two together?" the barman asked.
Poland started laughing.
England, blushing, was pulling out his wallet. "No… God no. Absolutely most definitely not…"
"He lives with a French guy," Poland confided to the barman.
"We are not living together!" England yelled.
"Yes you are."
"Well… we are. But we're not actually… you know living together."
"But you are living together?" the barman asked, confused.
"Yes, but we're not." England said, pulling out some notes from his wallet.
Poland turned to the barman, "See?"
England gave up.
It was almost a relief when Scotland walked in with Russia half an hour later. This was in the middle of Poland telling England about the visit to the strippers. England was wincing about how Katya had booed the strippers (England didn't ask what gender and was actually ashamed he'd ever been on a date with the Ukrainian) when Scotland bopped him over the head with a pool cue. "Hey! Arthur! Do yer have any change for the pool table?"
"Oh no…"
Poland looked Scotland up and down, "That skirt is so you, Hamish," he told him.
"It's a kilt!" Scotland told him.
"Is it, honey? Well aren't you just the sweetest?" Poland replied. England doubted this was true.
Russia was waving his pool cue around as if it were a sword. He was also wearing a sombrero. This in itself was utterly strange. It also made him look even bigger than he really was.
"Why are you two here? I didn't even know you knew each other?" England finally asked after getting over the shock of seeing Russia in a sombrero.
"Francy-pants told Italy you were here who told us. Well, Italy told Mr Russia, who told me. I bumped into him behind the local Sainsburys," Hamish 'explained'.
England was no wiser. He also did not want to know why Russia (or Hamish for that matter) were behind Sainsburys. England gave him some coins and hoped he would go away.
"We know each other from the War!" Hamish added before he'd even thought about what he was saying.
"Talk about putting your foot in your mouth…" Poland muttered.
"War?" Russia growled. He crunched a pool ball to dust in his hand.
"Oh bugger…" England said. "Can you ring Lithuania?" he asked Poland.
Poland began tapping numbers into his mobile, "I think he's actually, you know, like, in Lithuania," he said quickly.
"A double vodka, please," England said to the barman.
"I didn't know you drank vodka?" Poland asked him.
"I don't. It's for him…" England said, pointing at Russia.
Scotland was trying to calm the big Russian. "Come on, we'll play pool. There's no need to get yersel' inter a wee carry-on."
"Wut?" Russia didn't understand a word.
"Two double vodkas," Poland said wisely.
"I don't have enough money," England said.
Poland jumped off the barstool, "I'm ringing the Russian Embassy," Poland said. (He had the Russian Embassy on speed-dial. A wise move.)
Scotland was trying to 'cue-off' the game of pool. This, England surmised, would not go well. Partly because Russia had snapped off a leg off the pool table.
"Can't we do something?" England said, looking more and more worried.
"Hey! It's not my country he's about to partition!" Poland said and seemed to be settling in to watch.
England slowly slithered off the bar stool and tried to head towards the door without being seen.
It didn't work.
"Brother!" Scotland yelled. "Come and join us for a game of pool."
"Well I have to be back for… erm… Coronation Street."
Russia had taken hold of him. "I think you are lying," he rumbled, whilst swigging from a vodka bottle.
"No, he's not. He really does have to be back for Coronation Street," Hamish hiccuped. He was very drunk. And for Hamish to be very drunk must have meant that the two Nations must have been drinking for many hours.
England sagged with relief.
"But that's okay! Because I'm recording it!" Hamish said triumphantly.
"I thought I'd angered you earlier and you weren't going to talk to me!" England said, equally triumphantly.
"You did! I'm not your maid, Arthur!" Hamish said, far too loudly. He potted a red ball - rather easily too. Which was probably due to the fact that the table was at 45 degree angle.
"He was never my maid," England told the pub's gathering crowd.
"You are very strange, England," Russia said. Russia rarely called any of his fellow Nations by their human names or usually he just plain forgot and so to the watching humans it sounded like 'you are very strange England' and thus a slur on the country of England.
"Arthur…" England hissed trying to hint to Russia that he should use his human name.
"No! I'm Ivan! Ivan…" Russia said slowly. "But you can call me Sir."
"He wouldnae name any of the kittens Donald or Malcolm," Hamish told Russia by way of explanation.
Russia looked horrified. "Why not? They are good names for kittens!" Russia looked at England as if he were the epitome of evil.
England hurried over to Poland, who was stood near the men's toilets trying to get a mobile signal. Two men in football shirts glared at him as they came out of the conveniences. Poland was untroubled. This was a Nation who had been partitioned and even officially ceased to exist for a while. A few men in football shirts casting bigoted looks at him had no effect whatsoever. "Okay honey? Yes the Three-Legged Duck. I know I know, awful name. But that's English pubs for you. Yes, he's wearing a sombrero. I know!" Poland almost squealed in his excitement. "It's quite funny. But I think there might be some damage done to stray humans."
"Is that Lithuania? Ukraine?" England tapped him on the shoulder.
Poland looked at him, "No, the Russian Embassy." He then hung up after saying, "Bye then, we'll do lunch!" he added to England, "Bunch of idiots…"
An hour later… England noted that the Russian Embassy staff were taking their time getting there.
Russia and Scotland had been challenged to a game of pool by two big Cockney men. As big as the men thought they were they weren't as big as Russia and certainly not with his sombrero on. They evidently thought, particularly by playing for money - fifty pounds in fact - that Russia and Scotland, both being very drunk, that they would be able to win easily.
England didn't want to watch. But it was like a slow train crash. It might have been okay if Russia had any idea how to play pool. Or even what the cues were. He knew he had to get the balls into the pockets. But he used his fist to do this. He also had no prejudice as to what colour ball he 'potted'. He seemed to think this was a good thing.
Scotland, who did understand the rules of the game, was too drunk and too busy berating England about the 'gross insult done to the great Nation of Scotland and it was duly noted'.
England watched the ensuing match. Poland sat next to him, twirling his cocktail umbrella and occasionally texting someone.
"You're not supposed to sink the cue ball," one of the men said.
Russia looked at him. "Wut?"
"The white ball is a cue ball."
"What's a cue?"
"This is a cue," the man held up a cue.
"I thought that was a bat?" Russia asked wide-eyed.
"No…"
Russia picked up the white cue ball and crushed it in one hand to dust and sprinkled it on the pool table. That was another less ball…
"But never mind…" the man said quickly.
"Oh God…" England said.
It was only after Scotland had climbed onto the pool table to go to sleep, hugging a whisky bottle and Russia had got his hand stuck down one of the pool table pockets trying to extricate a ball and then tearing the table apart trying to free himself, that the police were called in. Close behind them were the Russian Embassy staff.
England decided then, the pub being full of Russians and Poland filming the whole thing on his phone, that it was time to go…
When he got home, he found France stood in the kitchen, wearing a pinny and nothing else. The Frenchman had curlers in his hair and was in a bad mood.
"Oh yes, you leave me with the kids. You don't care about me. I've toiled and cleaned for you and you come home smelling of beer."
"Well I'm sorry but I've had an awful day."
"So have I! But do I moan about it?"
"Well actually yes you do."
"Yes, I do, but I don't come home drunk."
"No, you're already bloody drunk!"
France nodded, "Living with you is enough to make any woman drink!" he said.
England tried to think what on earth that meant. "Well why don't you just leave then?" he said finally.
France looked shocked, "What about the children? What about the boy? Are you going to check on him and read him a bedtime story?"
England, who thought he had honestly accidentally walked into an episode of Eastenders, wondered what on earth was going on. "Okay…"
"I zink you should, mon cher."
England, who was very drunk should really have gotten himself a cup of tea before he went upstairs. He hesitated outside America's room. He had to hesitate because a very large secret service agent was blocking the door.
"What do you want, Kirkland?"
"I'm just going to go in and check on Alfred," England said. He felt very drunk but thought that he'd covered it quite well.
The agent looked at him suspiciously, "Why?"
England hesitated. He thought about lying, but was too tipsy to think of a lie, so instead told the truth, "Because Francis told me to."
The agent looked him up and down and then nodded, opening the door for him.
Evidently, Francis' word was law now in this house.
England's head spun.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the lump under the duvet. He stroked the bit of hair that he could see, feeling quite sentimental. He remembered well the time America had been just a little boy and he and France had brought him (and his brother) up between them. "Once upon a time there was a little boy called Alfred…" he began to tell Alfred their favourite bedtime story (it usually ended in Alfred being a knight that saved the villagers from a huge dragon and marrying the beautiful princess).
But the mood was ruined by the lump sitting up and screaming, "Aaargh! Mr England what are you doing?"
It was Italy.
England fell off the bed and promptly then fell over America whose feet were sticking out from under the bed.
"Why are you under the bloody bed? There's no point in buying a race-car bed if you're going to sleep under the bloody bed!"
"I'm being a secret agent on a mission!"
Meanwhile Italy was running round and round the bedroom screaming, "Stranger danger stranger danger!"
The secret agent from outside the door slammed in, threw England face down to the ground and pinned his arms behind his back.
"Aaaargh!" England yelled.
Downstairs he could hear the doorbell ringing.
"Let me up! It's me, it's me! I'm not bloody hurting anyone!" England shouted.
Downstairs France answered the door. "Bonjour?"
It was Mrs NoseyParker from next door.
England could hear the conversation from up there. Unfortunately. He got free from the agent after a nod from America and ran downstairs. It was too late.
France, naked, apart from a pink pinny tied around his waist and holding a feather duster was being told off by England's next door neighbour of 10 years.
"It's disgraceful!" the woman said.
"It is!" France said.
"I mean I've gotten used to the screaming over the years…"
"I bet you have."
"But there's screams and screams and these screams were different."
"Oui."
"And then there's the strange baking."
"I feel sorry for you, my good woman."
England shoved him out of the way, "Mrs… er… Mrs Parker…" he said, trying to think what her real name was.
"The Neighbourhood Watch Association is going to be hearing from me, Mr Kirkland. It's really not on."
"What?"
"I've lived next door to you for ten years and I've never seen such disgusting behaviour."
"Zen you are very unfortunate!" France interrupted.
"I believe he's naked," the woman whispered conspiratorially to England.
England nodded, "I think you are right," he whispered back and shut the door in her face.
He turned to France who was grinning broadly, whipped the feather duster off him and hit him several times over the head with it. He didn't notice the woman watching in horror through the window.
There was another knock on the door. England ignored it and continued hitting France with the pink feather duster, chasing the Frenchman round and round the table.
Unanswered, the door was slammed open and Germany stood there, glowering. This glower changed to a look of utter disgust.
England and France froze and then Italy flung himself into the room and into Germany's arms. "Germany! I texted you and you came!"
France sniggered.
"I told him you had tried to get into bed with me, Mr England, but now I realise that it's really Big Brother France you wanted and…"
England threw the duster down and hurried upstairs, covering his ears.
Downstairs in the basement there was a huge crash which made England stop in his tracks.
"Oh oui!" France called. "King Charles is down zere. I believe he is doing a strange magic ritual avec Tinkerbell…"
England closed his eyes and counted to ten… The basement door opened with a loud groan and he found that King Charles had indeed been doing a 'strange magic ritual'. The basement seemed to be full of royalty. He counted four Georges, an Elizabeth, two Henrys, two Scottish Kings (which was always bad news) and three Prince of Wales. He closed the door again quietly before they'd seen him. He wondered about moving house without telling anyone.
To be continued…